


5 Scenes from a Road Trip

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blow Jobs, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Frottage, Gambling, M/M, Magic Rituals, Mental Health Issues, Oh no there's only one bed, Past Child Abuse, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Recovery, Road Trips, Semi-Public Sex, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Five scenes from Quentin and Eliot's "sometimes 'I don't want to be here anymore' just means you need to go somewhere else" road trip.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 71
Kudos: 403





	5 Scenes from a Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for a full month and a half. It’s a direct sequel to [if all this flies apart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775362) and was started directly after I finished that fic.If you follow me on tumblr, you’ve seen this fic rake me over the coals. I tried to abandon it twice and it would not stay dead. So finally, here it is. Theoretically fit for public consumption, may it bring you all some modicum of joy. 
> 
> This fic would not exist without a couple folks I want to shout out. First of all, thanks to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine and complain and stress and rewrite and abandon this and pick it up again, and throw away 8k and then write it back up again. Thanks for the encouragement and also for being my unfailing beta reader. Also huge thank you to [ propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) who came in when I was stuck, fresh on the heels of completing her own roadtrip fic (which you should all read if you haven’t) and pointed out the things that weren’t working and how to get back on track. Thank you both for midwifing this fic, may it be free into the world.

**1– A Hotel in DuBois, Pennsylvania **

Quentin lingers fretfully around a mapstand while Eliot checks them in to the hotel, ever socially awkward even under the best circumstances, way too off-footed to just stroll up and ask for a room for the night. Eliot, who actually _has_ gone to a hotel just to fuck with no notice more than once in his life, has no shame at all. The bored looking attendant gives Eliot a speculative look that says _you’re not fooling anyone _and runs Eliot’s credit card_. _

Eliot, who hasn't tried to fool anyone in years, smiles blandly, and reminds himself that he knows enough battle magic to protect both of them from a couple homophobic muggles if it comes down to that. It crawls up his spine, old fear that's getting stronger the further they get into middle America, but Eliot refuses to bow to it. But the attendant says nothing more, just passes off two key cards, and Eliot goes to collect his awkward nerd. 

“Find any secrets at the bottom of the map holder?” Eliot teases as they shuffle into the elevator, suitcases in hand. 

“Just your dignity,” Quentin returns, quick as anything, and Eliot– _loves him_, every sharp, brittle, weird bit of him. 

“Oh, Q,” he sighs, looping his arm around Quentin’s shoulder in defiance and hitting the button for the 3rd floor. “Lucky for you, I’ve got dignity to spare.”

The joke, apparently, is on them, however, when Eliot swipes the hotel room open to find, not the two double beds that he expected but instead one king bed, and– bizarrely, a bathtub? In the middle of the room. A serviceable room, as motels go, clean and free of suspicious stains but– definitely lacking in a second bed.

"Um," Eliot stalls out, standing in the doorway. Quentin, stuck behind him in the hallway, makes an interrogative sound. "Okay, please believe me that I didn't plan this."

"What?" Quentin nudges him into the room so he can see, pausing as he takes in their accommodations. “So, there’s only one bed,” Quentin starts, amusement clear in his voice. “But there’s a bathtub in the main room. So I'm sure that's, um. Useful?"

"I can go back down and talk to the front desk," Eliot offers, even though he's so tired, the idea of waiting to sleep long enough to swap out a room kind of drags on him. 

"I just want to crash," Quentin admits softly, not meeting Eliot's gaze. Instead, he's looking at his shoes, and he looks so small all of a sudden it makes Eliot's heart ache. The Quentin in Eliot’s mind, in his memory, in his heart takes up so much space– chattering voice and stubborn personality, expressive flying hands, Quentin might be shorter and slighter than Eliot, but he takes up _space_ when he’s happy. He only curls in on himself like this when he’s trying to hide, brittle and sad, and it pains Eliot to have caused it, even for a moment.

"Yeah, it's been a long fucking day," Eliot agrees, and lets the door fall shut behind him. He sighs, flopping down onto one side of the gigantic king mattress. "I suppose we can make do."

“Hey,” Quentin grumbles, climbing onto the bed and begins physically shoving at Eliot’s shoulder and side, trying to roll him off the bed. “If you have a problem with it, you can sleep in the bathtub.”

“Hey, hey, be nice, I have a stomach injury.”

“Oh, shit.” Quentin stops shoving immediately, dropping back onto his heels with a contrite expression. “I forgot about that.” He looks so concerned, Eliot immediately feels bad for the jest, just another (welcome) reminder that Quentin does, actually, care about him. Loves him. Not only loves him, but _likes_ him on top of it. Quentin had agreed to spend however the fuck long in a car with him, because Eliot was the only person who didn’t set his teeth on edge, right now. It’s such a weird fucking feeling, to know someone just wants you around because they like you, something Eliot’s only experienced in his life with Margo and Quentin.

“I’m only fucking with you, my stomach’s fine.”

“Dick,” Quentin huffs, tipping sideways, until he’s sprawled on the bed, head next to Eliot’s. 

“It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before,” Eliot points out, and for once he doesn’t even mean the Mosaic, or anything tied to the life that Was But Wasn’t. They’d crashed together more than once over the course of Quentin’s disastrous first year at Brakebills, passed out drunk after parties, or when Quentin was seeking out a safe place to hide. “Plus, this thing’s fucking huge, we could fit us and at least two other people in this bed.”

“You’re not making me feel better about why there’s a bathtub next to it.”

Eliot laughs, fondness swelling like a balloon in his chest. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Quentin's face in profile, the lovely line of his nose, the curl of his smile. He really is gorgeous. All over again, Eliot feels lucky to have his time, his attention, his trust in this weird trip they're on. The idea of sleeping next to him is such a siren's call that Eliot almost feels bad for indulging in it. Almost. 

Quentin heads for the shower unprompted which is something of a surprise if Eliot’s being honest. Given the general vacancy in Quentin the last week before they hit the road, Eliot had been prepared to have to bully Quentin into bathing whenever being in the confines of the car with him started to get... pungent. But he just pulls a fresh t-shirt and some light cotton pants out of his suitcase and gives the bathtub in the middle of the room a distrustful glance before he disappears behind the thin bathroom door. 

Quentin has never been particularly given to song or other sound, while bathing, but nevertheless, the sounds of the shower and him moving through it filter through the bathroom door, soothing and present. Eliot finds _himself_ humming a little, as he opens his case and digs out his toiletry bag, pulls out clothes to wear tomorrow and hangs them, magics away any wrinkles, finds a robe and some silk pajama pants he can tolerate sleeping in. Sleeping naked in a motel bed never seemed like a great idea anyway, even if you weren’t sharing a bed with someone else who didn’t sign up to see your dick.

He’s sitting on the bed, ankles crossed, shoes, tie and vest abandoned, flipping through the TV stations when Quentin comes out of the bathroom. For a moment, he's expecting curtains of wet hair, and Quentin’s short hair slicked back from his face catches Eliot off guard. All the Quentin’s in the Happy Place had shoulder length hair.

(The same length, one might conclude, that Q’s hair had been for their first couple years on the mosaic.)

It’s off-putting, a bit, to see Quentin looking vulnerable like this, tired as hell and in too big pajamas, but have that one glaring difference. A physical reminder of how much Eliot missed. But Quentin doesn’t need to carry Eliot’s feelings about his own fucking posession, not when he spent 6 months living through the worse part of that deal. 

So instead, Eliot reaches for casual, for flip, for irreverent. “Would you judge me if I rented porn?”

“Yes, because you can get it on the internet for free,” Quentin says, blandly but fast, and it’s– somehow not the argument Eliot had expected. Fuck, he _loves_ that Quentin keeps surprising him.

“That's it?” He asks with a laugh, watching Quentin wander over to his side of the bed, sink down on it, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Well, I guess that would depend on the porn.”

“Okay, I was totally joking, but now I have to see what the options are,” he muses, scrolling rapidly through the TV guide until the titles start to get suggestive. “Ah, here we go, _‘co-ed spring break_’. Why do I get the sense that won’t be a very restful trip?”

“Oh my god,” Quentin whines, ears turning delightfully red. Which Eliot can _see_, thanks to the short hair. Maybe he could warm up to this new style after all.

“Why– who actually _watches these things_. I don’t even know what that one _means_.”

“Probably something with anal,” Eliot says mildly, tamping down on the vague sense of hilarity bubble up inside him.

“Why do you _know that_?”

“Babycakes, I've been watching porn since I was 12. I'm a connoisseur.” Quentin rolls his eyes, and Eliot grins, delighted. “What, you’re telling me you’re above this?”

Quentin's face wrinkles, nose scrunching up adorably. "I just... It always made me self conscious I guess. Hard to get off when you're feeling bad about the size of your dick."

Eliot genuinely almost says _I like the size of your dick, _which... is probably a step too far across the line. Playful homoerotic banter with your best friend is one thing, but– the boundaries they’re treading right now aren’t exactly clear. Eliot doesn’t want to push him. Instead he says, flippantly, "Can't relate." 

"Yes, well, we can't all have massive fucking horse cocks, Eliot," Quentin huffs, cranky, and he's so- he's so fucking cute, so genuinely delightful, Eliot fucking _missed_ him so much. The Quentins in the Happy Place had none of his barbs, rough edges all smoothed out, caricatures of loyalty and devotion. Real-Quentin is so much _better_.

"Lesbian porn?" Eliot suggests, mildly, scrolling idly through the channel listings just to have something to do with his hands. Quentin's guiltily silent for a beat or two, which is enough to make Eliot crack up again. 

"Shut up! Listen, okay, it's not– most of it is terrible! I don't know how much lesbian porn you've watched–" 

"Oh so little, Quentin, most _straight_ porn has too much pussy for me."

"–but no one looks like they're having a good time in most of it."

"Poor baby Q. Stuck with your own fantasies to get off to?" 

Quentin groans, rolling onto his stomach on the bed, which doesn't do much to help with the general feeling of heat slowly suffusing Eliot's body. "How much are you going to judge me if I say I prefer my porn in written format."

"Sweet little nerd," Eliot cooes, delighted. "Did you jerk off to Fillory fanfic?" Quentin remains silent, face planted in the bed, and Eliot starts laughing again. 

"This is such a weird conversation," Quentin mumbles, muffled by the blankets.

"We're both virile young men, it's healthy," Eliot shrugs looking back to the TV. "Unless you're feeling shy."

"I've literally had your cock in my mouth."

Which. Okay, touche. Point one to Quentin. Boundary officially set. 

"On that note, I'm going to go shower."

“Don’t spend too long jerking off, I probably used most of the hot water,” Quentin says, flippantly, flailing around until he can grab his bag from the floor, pull a book out of it.

“I’ll spend as long as I please,” Eliot replies primly, tossing the remote towards Quentin, who ignores it.

He doesn't jerk off in the shower, but well. It's a nice thought. 

They start the night several feet apart, but even with swathes of sheet and thin comforter and shitty mattress between them, Eliot can't help but be aware of the heat of Quentin's body, the sound of his breath. He's restless at first (always has been, a part of Eliot knows) but by some miracle, he drops off to sleep quickly. It takes Eliot longer, frozen as he is on his side. Longing aches under his breastbone, the desire to roll over at seek out warmth, to feel the expand and contract of Quentin's ribcage in his arms. 

He wakes hours later, and for a moment confusion crusts his sleep-addled brain. It's still dark, and for a handful of heartbeats he's not sure why he's awake when everything is so comfortable and warm. Then awareness catches up to him enough for him to realize that he's starfished across the bed in his sleep, arm and leg thrown over Quentin's body. Quentin, who's trying to extricate himself from the bed. 

“Jesus, sorry, I’m kind of an aggressive cuddler in my sleep,” Eliot murmurs, pulling away, feeling oddly embarrassed.

"It's okay," Quentin replies, and indeed he doesn't sound upset, his voice quiet and sleepy. "I just– bathroom."

Eliot hums, drawing his limbs back to himself as Quentin slides out of the bed. The air feels cool against Eliot's naked chest and he grumbles to himself, snuggle down still half asleep. Quentin getting back into bed jolts him from the doze, again, and he blinks sleepily to find that Quentin has settled down facing him this time, a mere six inches between them.

"Hello," he says stupidly, and it makes Q smile a little, up close and personal.

"Hi." Quentin's voice is soft and warm in the hotel night, and Eliot finds himself flooded with memories, nights spent falling asleep to the sound of Quentin's voice. "I didn't mind, I promise."

Well. That's about as clear and invitation as Eliot's likely to get. The material of Quentin's t-shirt is soft with wear, warm from his skin as Eliot reaches out, fits his palm against the span of Quentin's ribs. Quentin’s eyes drift closed with a happy hum, and Eliot let's it draw him in, settling in close until his arm is draped over Quentin's back. It feels precious, dangerously so, and suddenly Eliot feels far too awake, skin hungry and worried. 

Quentin seems unbothered, shifting closer with a sigh until his head tucked up under Eliot's chin, cheek resting on the bare skin of this throat and shoulder. He’s so open, tender and soft, trusting. Eliot's had sex that felt less intimate than this, Quentin’s breath brushing across his bare skin. 

"I missed you so much," Quentin whispers, noses brushing against Eliot's throat, and for the first time Eliot wonders if he's talking about more than just the Monster. Had he slept alone, in the final days of the key quest, missing having Eliot in his bed? 

Honestly, he hadn't looked like he was sleeping much at all. 

"I missed you too," Eliot promises, thinking of all the memory Quentin's in the Happy Place, long haired and eager to please. They paled in comparison to this, a real boy warm and soft in Eliot's arms. “Hey, I won’t be waking up with your hair in my mouth anymore, at least." He nuzzles his face down against the top of Quentin's head to prove his point, feeling the hair catch against his stubble. 

“Do you miss it longer?”

Eliot hums thoughtfully, reaching up to slip his fingers through the shorter strands of hair on the side of Quentin’s head, palm cradling his skull gently. “I like it longer,” he admits, brushing his thumb against the shell of Quentin’s ear. “But if this is a statement haircut, I can get on board.”

“It wasn’t. It was just a– ‘growing it out is annoying and it was getting in my ears’ haircut.”

Eliot draws back just enough to look at Quentin, at his beautiful brown eyes, pupils wide in the darkness. "Easier to take care of," Eliot muses, sliding his fingers through the strands, just to watch the flicker of happiness and relaxation that expands through Quentin at the touch. "Harder to hide behind though."

Quentin laughs, sheepish, but he doesn't move to hide in Eliot's throat again, just lets himself be seen. "Yeah, there is that." 

Eliot's eyes flicker down to his lips when he speaks, and he doesn't mean to, he doesn't _mean_ to get stuck watching Quentin beautiful soft mouth except -- this is the closest they've been since Eliot woke up and found Quentin spoken for. He'd kissed memory Quentins in the Happy Place and he's got memories of a hundred thousand kisses shared in another life, of kissing Quentin clean shaven and scratchy with whiskers. But they haven't kissed, in this timeline for real, since that disastrous evening in Margo's room. 

Quentin's eyes, when Eliot manages to drag his back up to meet them, are knowing. He smiles, small and soft and living more in the lines around his eyes than on his lips, and tilts his face up. An offer. 

It's so easy to move just a bit, drop his head down so their lips brush, and catch, slide and release and Eliot's _shivering, _hunger crawling his spine but he keeps his mouth soft on Quentin's mouth, just– kissing. Oh, god, kissing and Quentin's sweet, soft lips yield so perfectly, his mouth just _falls open _like he was made to welcome Eliot inside--

It takes all the self control Eliot has, all the courage in him to pull back and breath into Quentin’s mouth, “I don't think we should rush. There's so much we haven't worked through yet, and you said- with Alice, that you hadn't been wanting this. I don't want you to check out on me. I really want this to work.”

Quentin nods, his mouth red and spit slick, and Eliot thinks _I did that_ with a kind of helpless awe. “I think we can make it work if we’re both all-in.”

“I’m all-in, Q,” Eliot murmurs, and watches the dimple curl on the corner of Quentin’s sweet smile.

“Me too.”

**2– Interstate 80 in Indiana**

Silence followed them into Indiana. Eliot, for his part, hopes to power through the whole state in once single burst of driving. If they could avoid even having to pull over for _gas, _all the better in his opinion. It wasn’t _all_ that unusual for Quentin to be quiet, after a couple hours in the car. Oh, he was talkative enough, but you did eventually run out of a constant stream of chatter. Which is fine, honestly, they’d spent a whole life time sharing silence over their mosaic building. Eliot’s happy to turn up his current soundtrack of pop ballads from the 80s spilling out softly into the car and let Q have a break from having to talk. Rain patters down softly on the roof of the car, the _shk_ of the windshield wipers an intermittent interruption to the soothing repetitive sound. 

But something in Quentin’s silence has turned from contemplative to tense, in the last hour or so, and Eliot can’t help but be aware of it. It had become something of a habit to hold hands over the gearshift, but now Quentin’s sitting with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, folded between his thighs. Which is _fine_, it’s not like he’s _obligated_ to hold Eliot’s hand, but– 

_What did I do_, asks the little voice in the back of Eliot’s mind, which is maybe 5 years old and still thought there had to be a _reason_ he was getting hit. 

“I think I’m ready to be mad at you now,” Quentin says softly, apropos of nothing, and it feels loud in the confined space of the car. Eliot almost flinches.

But he’s _not_ a 5 year old anymore, and Quentin is not his father. So he turns down the volume on the music, his stomach wriggling unpleasantly, but, well. Quentin had warned him this was coming. Fingers tightening almost reflexively on the steering wheel, he braces himself for the flood. “Okay, um. I deserve it.”

“You’re fucking right, you do,” Quentin snaps, and it’s not– _loud_, he’s not _yelling_, but it feels caustic, makes something hard and sharp and hopeless twist behind Eliot’s breastbone. “You _lied to me_.”

“I know,” Eliot breathes, and bites down on the ‘_I’m sorry’_. He’s apologized, more than once he’s apologized– this isn’t about Eliot making up for what he did. This is about Quentin having the space to feel hurt. 

Quentin straightens up from where he’d been leaning against the door of the car, turning part way in his seat to face Eliot. He _looks_ angry, when Eliot tears his eyes off the road to glance over at him, lines drawn in his furrowed brows and a hard set to his mouth. “You were– _cruel_, you made me think it didn’t– that you’d _never_ loved me. You made it seem that to think you _could_ was a laughable thing.”

Eliot swallows, and it’s like– it’s like standing silent and powerless in the Happy Place, watching it all play out again like the worst sort of interactive theater. _Watching_ Quentin’s heart breaking, and knowing that it was his fault. “It was awful, I know it was, but I never _meant_ to be cruel.”

“What did you mean, then?” Quentin’s disbelieving, gaining volume with each word. “Tell me how this possibly made sense from your point of view, because _I don’t get it_.”

Pulse hammering in his throat, Eliot clings to the steering wheel for dear life. “I meant to let you off the hook. I– I was _scared_, I was fucking _terrified_, and I couldn’t stand the thought of trying it again and then watching it _break_ and ruining everything–” 

“Why were you _so sure_ it was going to break?” He’s genuinely agitated now, hands flying in abrupt, uncoordinated movements. “That’s the thing I _never_ understood. Why– I want you to tell me _why it wasn’t worth the chance_. Why were you _so sure_ that I wouldn’t choose to make it work.”

“Because good things don’t happen to boys like me, Quentin! And we _certainly _don’t get to keep them.” Quentin blinks, startled into stillness, but the words are pouring out of Eliot now like they might not ever, ever stop. “Do you know, I don’t think I have enough fingers to count the number of times my father told me I was going to get AIDs and die before 30.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin breathes, horrified, his big brown eyes wide.

“And I know it’s a horrible, bigoted thing to say that has no real baring on the realities of life in 2019 but– You know, if I set out to drink and fuck and smoke and snort myself to death, well. I’m only living up to expectations, right? Even Fillory seemed like a pretty good chance to die in some way that had meaning, because _yeah, I get wanting that, Quentin._ I really fucking do.”

Quentin winces, arms folding defensively across his stomach. “I know you do.”

“But the thing is– I fucking got old with you,” Eliot rambles, verging on hysteria, fingers gripped so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckles are white as the rain patters down around them. “Sure I died first, but not– not by a _lot_. I lived to be older than my grandfather ever got, a _lot_ older than my mother ever got to be. I held my grandkids, and I remember– I remember the _old people sex_, Quentin. I fucking remember how my hips and my knees didn’t work and I still– I wanted you so badly, I didn’t _care_. I wasn’t supposed to live past 30, and then suddenly I’ve got this life in my head where I did and I _loved you_ the whole time, and you’re asking me why it scared me?”

“Yes, because I– I don’t get how you can see all that and not see it as _proof_ that we could have it again.” Quentin’s brows pinch, a twist of _hurthopesadness_ and Eliot sighs. Tips his head back against the headrest and makes his hands relax. He’d made a promise to himself and to Quentin, that he was going to be honest. 

“I don’t have the framework for that kind of love, darling,” he says, as gently as he can, looking out at the wet expanse of straight road in front of them because it’s easier than looking at Quentin. Lined by cornfields on either side, stained grey by the rain, it’s a sight so familiar it might as well be the face of a family member. “No one’s ever loved me like that, ever, not in my whole life. It’s not that I didn’t believe you were capable of it, it just seemed to belong to a very specific set of circumstances. I hadn’t– I hadn’t had time to process it yet. I’m sitting there trying to wrap my brain around this very new idea that maybe I’m not a piece of shit who deserves to die in a ditch and you’re sitting next to me holding out your whole beating heart.”

“I guess it was a little fast,” Quentin mutters, and out of the corner of his eye, Eliot can see him picking absently at the sleeve of his hoodie, just to have something to fidget with. There’s an unhappy downward twist to his mouth, like all the anger has bled out of him, leaving him looking more than a little deflated. Or maybe, even worse than that, like the anger turned inwards. _Jesus_, the last thing Eliot wants is Q to absorb guilt for this.

“Maybe,” Eliot says carefully, and part of him still thinks that’s true. Still thinks they needed a chance to remember _who_ they were before they jumped into something. But he also remembers Quentin subtly wiping tears from his eyes, and slam of realizing that he’d just shattered something precious. “But you’re right, I _was_ needlessly cruel about it. And then once I _had_ the time to process it, I’d already broken your heart, so. You know, damage done. But I also realized that a life without you in it was just– unacceptable. So, yes, I shot the monster, and yes it made everything worse, and yes it almost got you killed anyway. I’m _so sorry_, Quentin. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

Eliot wishes they were anywhere but in a car, all of a sudden, because he can’t _watch_ Quentin process this, not without risking a wreck. Which he’s probably doing already, to be honest, his mind is _not_ on the road. But the unhappy twist of Quentin’s mouth remains, and he turns to look out his window for just long enough for Eliot to wonder if he stepped in it, if he made it worse somehow and they’re back to silence again.

But Q does speak eventually, soft and weak. “The rest of your life is– a really big scale. Especially when I’m having a hard time thinking past the end of the day. Maybe you can like– start smaller?” Quentin suggests, a little overwhelmed. “Maybe you can just– be here, now?”

“I am here, Q,” Eliot says gently, angling towards him so he can get a look at Quentin’s face. Downturned and in profile, he looks impossibly beautiful and impossible fragile. Carefully, Eliot reaches up to catch a strand of fly-away hair and tuck it back in place. “I’m going to keep being here for you. It is literally the least I can do.”

Quentin looks up, and Eliot can see something pulling together in his face, determination and hope. “Pull over.”

“What–?”

“Pull the car over.” 

Confused, Eliot does as he’s bid. Several tense seconds of merging across the interstate later, and Quentin’s unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing over the gear shift. He’s awkward, because he’s _Quentin_, but once the knees get sorted out, Q’s settled his whole little self between Eliot and the steering wheel and just– _hugging him_. 

Well. Eliot hugs back, because he’s not an _idiot_.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he mumbles into Quentin’s shoulder, and fuck, maybe he _is_ an idiot afterall. But Quentin feels so fucking perfect in his arms, weight on his lap, perfect dense little package that Eliot _loves_ so fucking much.

“I am,” Quentin replies, sounding not mad at all, frankly, as he relaxes into the hug. “But I still love you, and you’ve been through a lot of bullshit, and you deserve a hug.”

“Oh,” Eliot breathes out, at a loss. Quentin’s hand comes up to brush through the curls at the back of Eliot’s head, a gentle comforting touch that makes him _shiver_ obviously. Fuck, he’s not used to being touched the way Quentin touches him. Not anymore. 

“I’m sorry your dad’s a piece of shit,” Quentin breathes, so matter of fact it actually startles out a laugh from Eliot. “I think you deserve to be happy, but– I also get that’s about as helpful as it would be for you to tell me I have no reason to be sad, so–.”

“I think you have plenty of reason to be sad,” Eliot interrupts softly, sliding his hands up the back of Quentin’s hoodie so they splay out, warm against his t-shirt. “And I’ve sort of decided to be happy out of spite, so. Hearing you tell me it’s allowed every once in a while might not be a bad thing.”

Q pulls back, enough so they’re face to face, almost nose to nose. The rain patters down lightly on the roof of the car, but close like this Eliot can still hear Quentin’s breathing. Steady and alive. Precious. “It’s allowed,” Q murmurs, and then leans in to kiss him, sweet and soft and brief. “If you pull that shit again, I’m going to literally curse you. I’ve learned some creative ones. How’s constantly having a rock in your shoe sound?”

“Terrible,” Eliot laughs, and fuck, he can’t help it, he feels _gleeful_, he feels _delighted_, Quentin’s weight in his arms, on his lap on the side of the interstate in fucking Indiana. “Guess I better keep loving you.” 

“Good,” Quentin says, scowling, and Eliot has to kiss him, just one more time, just to feel the welcome warmth of him. Then the fact that he’s _kissing a boy_ on the roadside in Indiana catches up with him, and he breaks away with a startled little giggle. Quentin’s raises an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Eliot promises, kissing the corner of Quentin’s mouth in final farewell before withdrawing his hands. “Just feeling a little surreal, that’s all. C’mon, get back in your seat before some homophobic cop pulls over to check on us.”

The rain has mostly stopped by the time Eliot gives up the goat and admits he’s too worn out to keep driving. Quentin’s still quiet, still a little closed off, but the causticness of it has bled out. He looks as tired as Eliot feels. Stubbornness compels Eliot to push on until they’re on the inside of the Illinois border, then he gives up. Sticking close to the interstate, hotels are easy to find. Eliot pulls into the parking lot of a chain-hotel tower, willing to bet there will be something available here. 

“I’m going to take a walk,” Quentin says, voice quiet, as Eliot kills the engine of the car. “Clear my head.”

Worry turns in Eliot’s stomach, the singularly pressing worry that’s been living there since Margo had said _Quentin almost didn’t make it back, honey. He’s fine, but he’s resting now_. Newer worry, the ‘did I break the thing I was trying to fix’ worry layers on top of that, but– Quentin’s not asking for permission. And it’s not Eliot’s to give to begin with. “Okay,” he says instead, then “Take your phone?”

“Duh,” Quentin sighs, then smiles, brittle but not– false. “I’ll come back, I promise. I just need to– get through all the shit in my brain. And that’s hard to do sometimes, when I want to take care of you so badly. I think I need to be mad at you without it spilling on you for a bit.”

Eliot, who hasn’t really had anyone want to _take care of him_ since his mother died,at least not in this reality– nods. Grips the steering wheel. Says, “I’m sorry,” again, because he’s not able to bite it back anymore. Quentin’s lips brush against his cheek, and Eliot squeezes his eyes shut, tamps down his helpless, over-eager heart. 

“I’ll come back,” Quentin says again, and then the car door clicks open and he’s gone.

Eliot goes through the motions of getting the room on autopilot, texts the room number to Quentin so he knows where to go and then _makes himself not check_ to see if Q responds. It’s either a shame or a blessing that this hotel is too cheap to have a mini-bar, depending on how Eliot’s feeling about sobriety. Which, admittedly, changes minute to minute but lands generally in the ‘let’s see if we can achieve moderation before we try cold turkey’ department.

But no, it’s just a normal shitty hotel with a queen bed, a kind of sad looking desk, and a table with one terrible looking arm chair squished into the far corner of the room. He drops both their bags near the sliding door of the closet, going through the now familiar habit of opening his own suitcase and pulling out clothes to hang, snapping the wrinkles out of them with a spell. Fishing out his toiletry bag, he wanders into the bathroom to set up without much thought, picking up the complimentary bottles of shampoo to stare at them blankly. Lavender. Not his favorite.

Then he passes back out into the main room of the hotel, tugging absently on the thin blanket on the bed, inspecting the clutter on the desk. It really is your run of the mill hotel, not much to distract Eliot’s restless brain from wondering if the actual love of his life is walking in front of a truck at this very moment.

_Fuck_, he can’t live like this, constantly on edge everytime Quentin’s out of his sight. He promised to come back, so Eliot needs to– trust. 

Honesty, trust, belief. Put your money where you mouth is, Waugh.

The room is crushingly silent and he has nothing to _do, _so he pulls up some Regina Spektor on his phone and starts reorganizing his suitcase. Because it be like that sometimes, okay_?_ It seems like a pretty good idea until ‘_Your hair was long when we first met_’ is ringing out of the tinny little speakers, and suddenly he’s on his knees next to the bed sobbing. 

_The history books forgot about us, and the bible didn’t mention us, not even once. You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first. Beneath the stars came falling on our heads. But they’re just old light, they’re just old light. Your hair was long when we first met._

God, it _hurts_, crying fucking _hurts_, how does Quentin do it so often and so easily. It’s like wrenching a painful wade of feelings out of himself, like a hand slipping into his chest and ripping out a stone and why does he _know what that’s like_– every sob feels like _I can’t lose you_ and _don’t leave me alone here_. He feels raw, skinned and shredded by the time it’s all come up, messy and wet against his sleeves. 

Stumbling to the bathroom on weak legs, Eliot splashes cool water on his face, the cups it in his palms, lets it collect until he can bring it to his eyes. The chill of it eases the hot, tight skin, grounding as he gets his breath back. He’s still in the bathroom, staring at his own face in the mirror like it belongs to a stranger, when there’s a soft knock on the door. Eliot practically sprints over to open it, and something that had been pulled tight in his chest releases at the familiar mop of brown hair, black hoodie damp from the drizzle.

Quentin is, unexpectedly, carrying a box of pizza and a 4-pack of tall cans of beer. He greets Eliot with a rehearsed, "Your payment for being a dick is that you have to drink my IPA and not complain about it," and shoves cans of beer into Eliot’s chest. Then he actually gets a look at Eliot and his brow pinches into a frown. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Eliot breathes, and means it because, well.He came back. “I will absolutely drink your shitty beer.”

“No complaining,” Quentin says, pointedly, then physically points, waggles his finger at Eliot like the _dad he is_. 

Eliot snaps one of the cans out of the holder and pops the top, taking a demonstrative sip. It tastes bitter and sharp and kind of like grapefruit, but it’s cold, and soothes his crying-raw throat. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Quentin asks, worry coloring his voice as he steps into the room, maneuvering the box of pizza around Eliot. _I want to take care of you so badly_, he’d said, earlier, and it wasn’t like Eliot hadn’t _known_ that. Quentin had nearly died trying to take care of him. But– it sits warmly in Eliot’s chest, now that Quentin is back, the glow of being loved even through anger.

“I am now,” is all he says in reply, nosing in to press a kiss to Quentin’s temple. 

They eat greasy pizza sitting cross-legged on the floor, and wash it down with cold beer, and Quentin seems more animated than he has in weeks. Maybe since Eliot woke up. He tells Eliot about the little pizza place he found, a dog he met on the way there, waving his slice around and talking with his mouth full. It should be gross, really, kind of is, but then he swallows and smiles and– It’s beautiful. _He’s beautiful_. Eliot will drink shitty IPAs for the rest of his life if that’s the price of getting to be the thing that makes Quentin smile.

Full of beer and greasy pizza, Eliot sprawls out with his shoulder pressed against Q’s, long legs stretching out in front of him on the stiff hotel carpet, their backs to Eliot’s bed. The contact zings through him, pleasant despite its simplicity, solid. Reassuring. Quentin’s _here_.

“Do you think we can be done hurting each other now?” Quentin asks softly, fingers absently shredding a discarded pizza crust, fidgety.

“I hope so,” Eliot replies, looking down at the can in his hand. The rim of it is shiny, above the printed wrap, and he runs his thumb along the metal. “I’m not going to lie to you ever again, at least. That doesn’t mean I’m never going to be a dumbass, but–”

“Well, you’re not getting a personality transplant, so that’s unavoidable,” Quentin says sagely, sitting up and stretching. Then softer, more sincerely– “I think honesty is a good first step.”

“I’m honestly glad you’re here,” Eliot says, and he looks up, means to glance but gets caught up in Quentin’s wide, hopeful eyes. “Here, specifically, not just on the planet. Though I’m fucking glad of that, Coldwater. But I mean, like– here next to me, right now.”

Q smiles a little, sad quirk of lips, and then he’s leaning over, snuggling in until he can tuck against Eliot’s shoulder. “Feels like this is where I’m supposed to be,” he admits, quiet. “It’s always felt like that, with you.”

Eliot thinks of the confused boy tripping across the Sea at Brakebills, green sweater and winter coat. It literally feels like a lifetime ago, but he can see that boy now, in the man next to him. “It has, hasn’t it? That’s pretty special.”

They both give up and call it a night early, barely 9pm and they’re both exhausted. Eliot watches Quentin get ready for bed and thinks about belonging. He thinks about that boy stumbling across the lawn, the old Fillorian peasant with whiskers down to his chest, the too-thin ghost of a man who’d watched Alice storm out of the penthouse and not tried to stop her. He curls up under the covers waiting for Quentin to get into bed and thinks about hope. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, after Quentin switches off the light and climbs in, settles close enough to touch. Eliot doesn’t, not yet.

“For what?” Quentin asks, sleepy and smelling of peppermint toothpaste.

Eliot reaches out, brushing his fingers against the side of Quentin’s cheek. “Forgiving me.”

“Oh,” Q breaths, looking almost startled. “I mean. Thank you for explaining. I think I understand better now.” 

Eliot nods wordlessly, terrified, suddenly, that Quentin does understand. He’d let Quentin see something today he’s not let anyone see. Maybe not even Margo. And well. If secrets have magic, maybe he can give this secrets to Quentin, let him use the power in it. Q’s always been good at mending things. Carefully, he traces his hand down from Q’s face, over his shoulder and down his arm, until they’re holding hands on the bed between them, arms tucked in between their chests. 

Finding words is a struggle. But then, there are words for this feeling, aren’t there? “I love you, Q.”

Quentin answers with a kiss, nosing forward to press warmly into Eliot’s mouth, a little off center, but so good. “I know you do. You know I do too.”

Eliot finds, to his own surprise, that he does know that. It’s a pretty wonderful thought. Squeezing their hands together, he settles into the stiff hotel bed, ready to let exhaustion take him. “Goodnight, darling,” he murmurs, and watches Quentin smile in the darkness. 

**3– A Hedge Witch Gathering in Chicago**

They hadn’t exactly _meant_ to get invited to a hedge ritual. They’d just wandered into a hedge bar, hoping to trade some spells for free drinks. It was something of a surprise to find themselves, the most adept magic users in the place, being _begged_ to join the ritual. 

Quentin, who's enthusiasm for magic had only been dampened slightly by the last year of his life, had poured over the spell with great curiosity. Eliot glanced at it long enough to be able to tell it was a naturalism spell, and then kind of lost interest, choosing to focus instead on teaching the bartender another cocktail trick. 

"We're calling it Plant Growth," explained Jackie, who's got an asymmetrical bob and a nose ring, and kind of looked like she'd like to eat Quentin for breakfast. "Like the-" 

"The D&D spell," Quentin cut in, his eyes bright and excited and Eliot had sighed internally, already resigned to tagging along. 

Which is how they end up on a chilly beach beside a lake so great it might as well be the ocean. The bonfire they’re circled around is a bright spot of heat in the gathering twilight, but it’s nothing compared to the swell of magic. Cooperative casting is like _nothing else_ Eliot’s ever experienced in his life, the feeling of the wild currents of reckless magic stringing them all together. Wild, reckless magic that exists in the world again because of Quentin, because of his bravery. Because his immense capacity to love pushed him to the point where sacrifice seemed easy. It hurts, aches, somewhere in Eliot’s chest to think about it, and he grabs that pain and focuses it like he was taught. 

They stand next to each other in the circle of their brand new friends, this scrappy little coven of hedges who took that gift, that wild beautiful magic, and decided to make something good with it. A spell to purify the land, clear pollutants from the water and the air, to enrich the soil, to seap good strong energy into the earth. It feels different than any spell Eliot’s every cast, looking out into the bright, eager faces of the witches around him. They’re not casting with pain, he realizes, and it’s such a shock he almost loses his place in the spell, fingers only pulling through the tut on muscle memory. 

There’s _joy_ in this magic. There’s _love_ in it. 

Next to him in the circle, Quentin’s short hair catches in the breeze, blowing around his face. He catches Eliot watching him and smiles at him through the chanting, practically glowing with magic and the light of the bonfire. If Eliot tries, he can feel Quentin’s power in the swell of the ritual, unique and sturdy, magic meant to help rather than to harm. _Take this force, and let it mend all the broken things._

The energy of the spell builds and builds and builds in the circle of the firelight, and Eliot pours everything he has into it. Kinetic energy, into the movement of the wind and the currents of the water, combustive energy, into the burning of the cells in plants and animals. Hope and joy and pain and _love– _everything pushed into that free, wild magic.

The spell releases in a great wave, a ripple of magic that seems to burst from them and expand rapidly, sending all of Eliot’s senses with it for one blinding moment. For just a second he _is_ the swirl of the air, the ripple of the currents of the water, the timeless stretch of growing things. Then he’s back in his body, and every single nerve ending is tingling with the release of power, the gentle breeze like a physical touch on the exposed skin of his forearms, face and neck.

“Oh, _wow_,” someone says, on the other side of the fire, but Eliot doesn’t look to see who, too transfixed by Quentin. 

He’s smiling, a big, unashamed smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, draws deep grooves on his cheeks. Pupils blown wide, he looks high on the rush of magic, laughing in the growing night as one of their new friends passes him a drink. 

“This is what I always wanted magic to be,” Quentin admits, minutes later, tucked comfortably between Eliot’s thighs in the circle of the firelight, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. Everyone’s excited, buzzing with energy, and Nadia keeps running back to her notebook to jot down ideas. Quentin’s watching her with a wistfulness that Eliot knows, somehow, means he’s thinking of Julia; gone to her godhood and leaving Quentin down one best friend.

Eliot kisses the back of his neck softly, right at the edge of his hairline where it curls into soft little rings, and sends a promise up to Our Lady of the Tree. _I will pick up where you left off_. _I will keep him safe, and as happy as he can be_.

“I never thought to hope for magic like this,” Eliot admits, soft into Quentin’s ear. Magic had come into Eliot’s life with violence, and it’s been many other things since– but violent most of all. A slash of battle magic and a spray of blood, the sharp snap of fire jumping to life under his fingers, the burning smell of the Rhinemann Ultra like ozone ripping in the air, the zing of guiding power down a sword blade... to be able to use magic to mend, to _build_, feels like a revelation. 

Caught in the circle of his body, Quentin leans back, head resting on Eliot’s shoulder. His free hand, the one not holding the bottle of wine, finds Eliot’s wrapped around his waist. Tangles their fingers together. “Maybe we can do more magic like this,” Quentin suggests, soft in the burbling voices of the excited hedges.

“Hmm, rituals by the fire? Wanna dance naked the moonlight with me, sweetheart?” Eliot hums, teasing, pleased, against the shell of Quentin’s ear. The smell of woodsmoke and Quentin’s hair tangle together in Eliot’s brain, and he feels– hungry. Quentin in his arms, tucked between his legs, tiny little thing but so familiar; Eliot’s over-eager heart slams restlessly in his chest, _stay with me, stay with me, stay with me_.

The energy from the ritual softens, smoothes into something warm and bright and glowing. Or maybe that’s just the wine, the magically burning bonfire, settling heat into Eliot’s bones. Chatting with their new friends is interesting, but Eliot’s attention is almost entirely absorbed by Quentin, his excitement, his eagerness, the smile lines crossing his face. The drink keeps flowing as the stars pop out, but Quentin stops drinking after their one shared bottle, and Eliot follows his lead. As much as it might be nice to be blissfully drunk– he doesn’t need it. Not when he can sprawl out with Quentin at his side, head cushioned on a sweater produced from Quentin’s enchanted messenger bag, and let the night unfold around him. 

“The last time I fell asleep on a beach was in Ibiza, my first year at Brakebills,” Eliot muses, staring up into the sky. The heat from the bonfire is warming one side, and Quentin’s familiar little body is tucked up tight on the other.

Q twists a little, until his chin is propped up on his hand, looking at Eliot. “Colder here,” He muses, and smiles when Eliot brushes his thumb against the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah. And a lot less naked.”

Quentin snorts, eyes flicking back up towards where their new friends are piled around them. “I don’t know, someone’s definitely going down on Jackie. Can’t you feel it?”

He holds his hand out, like he’s trace the currents of wild magic in the air, and Eliot lets his eyes fall shut. Reaches out with his senses for the ambient magic, feel the movement of it. Everything around their little bubble of firelight feels incandescent, and yes, pulling this way and that as the others around them process the high of cooperative magic. 

When he opens his eyes again, Quentin’s still watching him, his short hair ruffling in the breeze off the lake. Carefully, Eliot catches a loose strand falling across his forehead, slides it back up into the swoop of floppy hair on the top of his head. Quentin smiles softly, still watching him, and Eliot feels– seen, down to his core. 

“I can feel it,” he agrees, belatedly, and even if he couldn’t, he could hear it, the soft sounds of bodies moving together.

“Did you know we were coming to an orgy?” Quentin asks, voice soft and lightly teasing, and he doesn’t sound put off at all, just amused.

“I would have warned you, if I had,” Eliot says, honestly, turning on his side a little so his back is to the fire, pressing Quentin closer all along his front. “I don’t think they knew. I don’t think any of them have done magic of this caliber before.”

Quentin hums thoughtfully, lets Eliot rearrange them a little until they’re curled together like closed parenthesis, Eliot’s knees tucked in between Quentin’s. Q’s body feels familiar, even through the layers of windbreaker and hoodies, t-shirt and jeans, and part of Eliot wants desperately to get caught up in the moment, to fuck with abandon in a sea of strangers like he would have 4 years ago.

A much bigger part is very, very invested in keeping the calm, contented happiness that is suffusing every part of Quentin. His skin lit by firelight is an achingly familiar sight, and Eliot would probably be completely content just to watch him until they fall asleep, surrounded by the swell of magic and the quiet sounds of other people coming together.

Then Quentin’s nosing forward for a soft, gentle kiss, and Eliot’s heart speeds up in his chest. Every single time Quentin kisses him it feels too good to be true, like a dream he’s desperate to never, ever wake from. It’s a brief thing, a fleeting press of lips and then Quentin’s breath on his lips. 

“Hey,” Eliot breathes, rubbing their noses together until Quentin chuffs out a laugh, soft in the still night. 

“Hi there,” he replies gamely, and Eliot smiles helplessly, noses in to feel the drag of Quentin’s stubble against his cheeks, prickly and sharp. 

“That was nice,” he murmurs, and Quentin hums in agreement. “Want to do it again?”

“Mmm, yeah, think so,” Quentin breathes, a soft susurration across Eliot’s lips. 

Quentin’s cheek, when Eliot touches him again, feels warm, flushed with the remnants of the drink and the heat of the fire light. His mouth his soft and hot and inviting, parting under Eliot’s mouth with the barest touch of tongue. Short hair under his fingertips, not long enough to twist in the way he used to but Eliot can still cup the back of his neck the way Q likes, stroke his thumb against the hinge of his jaw. A soft, contented sound, and Quentin’s settling closer, one hand twisting in the front of Eliot’s jacket, pulling him closer until they’re pressed together all down their fronts. Legs tangled, the sounds and smells of the hedges around them seem almost reassuring, a promise that no one is watching them too closely.

Almost a week of sharing beds, but kissing still feels like a precious gift, and Eliot hasn’t dared to even want more. But now, he can feel Quentin getting hard against his thigh, even through the layers of trousers and jeans, he can _feel_ it. Soft, eager mouth, the solid, sturdiness of his chest, the hardness of him against Eliot, it sparkles through Eliot like fire. _God_, how long has he been _wanting– _But. 

But. Pulling away with a slick sound, Quentin grunts in protest, fingers tightening on Eliot’s jacket to tug him closer, pull him back. It’s an easy thing to use the hand on the back of his neck to soothe him, slide fingers through Q’s hair and coax him back so they can speak into the space between their bodies. 

“Do you– Last time we hooked up because of magic, that didn’t go too well,” Eliot breathes, utterly distracted by the shadow of Quentin’s eyelashes in the firelight, the pretty red of his mouth, dragged raw from stubble. 

“I’m not someone else’s boyfriend this time,” Q points out, bumping the tip of his nose against the point of Eliot’s chin. He _nuzzles_, dragging his nose and mouth down to Eliot’s throat, pepper him with soft, hot kisses that make remembering his objection really fucking difficult. 

“No, you’re not.” _You’re mine_, Eliot thinks hotly, and it would be so easy. So easy to just let himself have this. But there were other reasons they weren’t– It’s not like Eliot doesn’t _want to_ have sex with him, not like he’s really ever objected to sex in a crowd, either. But– “I just. Can’t fuck this up. God, I _love you_, have I told you that recently?”

“It might have come up this morning,” Quentin says, and he’s still smiling, that gentle, contented happiness that feels so fucking rare and precious. He’s also still hard, pushed all up tight against Eliot. “I get that you’re being careful. We’ll have a bed and privacy soon, and we can wait for that for anything impressive– but Eliot, you feel _so good_ right now and I just want to be close to you. I want to share this with you.”

Which is a pretty good counterpoint to every argument Eliot has waiting for ignoring the hunger pushing through both of them. Everything melts into an onslaught of sensation, the chill in the air and the warmth of the fire at Eliot’s back, Quentin’s _hotwetslick_ mouth on his, the line of Quentin’s cock against his thigh through the layers of their clothes. The magic connecting them all pulses with power, with hunger, with _heat_, and oh, yeah, right. People do magic with sex too.

God, they must be a beacon of magic and light, all coupled and thrupled off, everyone chasing feeling. Off to their right, there’s the clicking wet sound of a cock sliding into someone’s throat, and it lights heat under Eliot’s skin. He rolls them both over, until Quentin’s on his back on the sand, letting Eliot blanket him fully. God_, _but Eliot likes that he’s– small, but so solid. It’s perfect, the muscle of Quentin’s thigh going tight for Eliot to grind on while Eliot gets both hands up to cup his face. Brush thumbs against his cheeks and kisses him until he’s moaning, until every single one of their new friends knows that Eliot’s making him feel _so fucking good_.

“_Eliot_,” he groans when he comes, and it’s not a shout, it’s soft and it’s private and it’s– it’s _special_, this is _special_, everything feels like renewal and tastes like magic and Eliot gets to watch pleasure crest across Quentin’s face, startled and wonderful. He gets to bury his face in the curve where Quentin’s neck meets his shoulder, nose past windbreakers and hoodies down to the skin where he smells like _home–_

Eliot comes with a shudder, one hand going tight in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin cries out like he _likes it– _It’s too much. It’s everything.

There’s spells to clean up after, giggly and blushing, giddy on the fact that they just came in their pants like teenagers, buzzed on wine and the energy of the group. They do end up sleeping on the beach, curled up together with Quentin’s face tucked into Eliot’s throat. Eliot falls asleep staring up at the stars, feeling the weight and shape of Quentin against him, and there’s something so right about this that he can’t believe he ever doubted it. 

Later, they’ll abandon their normal routine of shitty motels, find something nice in Chicago where they can stay for a couple days. They’ll settle into sheets soft enough to not scratch on naked skin and spend a whole day learning each other again, new and fresh in these bodies. Quentin will bury his face in Eliot’s hip, near the still-tender scar of the axe wound and breakdown crying, cling to Eliot as months and months of grief and fear and loneliness come pouring out of him in a rush.

They’ll fuck tender and slow in the lamp light, Quentin’s eyelashs dark with tears, and kiss and kiss and _kiss_ until they both come. Eliot will kiss every knob in Quentin’s spine, down to the small of his back and further, run his tongue over the tender furl of muscle at his hole for so long his jaw hurts, until Quentin comes just from that. 

They’ll leave the hotel just long enough to find food, then eat it in the bathtub, laugh over dumplings and chicken and steamed vegetables. They’ll swap kisses that taste like garlic and soy sauce and not care, not care at _all _as Quentin climbs into Eliot’s lap in the cooling water and rides him until they’re both a shaking, shivering mess.

They’ll sleep for 10 hours, waking up tangled together, tender, sore and over-stimulated, but skin-hungry and unashamed. They’ll venture out into the city, explore an art museum and catch a concert. Eliot will find an excuse to drag Quentin back to the hotel, slip his tie over Quentin’s wrists and have him again, chase all his needy little sounds. 

They’ll stay in Chicago for a few days. There’s no reason to rush. 

**4– Push Game in Vegas**

“Do you think we’ll be able to find a Push game here?”

It’s a rare day that Quentin’s driving, on the long flat empty stretch of desert road which leads them up to Vegas, and Eliot’s a little absorbed in his phone, continuing the process of catching up on the months he missed.

“Hmmm?” Eliot hums, while his brain spins to process the question. Quentin’s got his right hand on the top of the wheel, left arm resting on the open window and propping up his head. His hair is absolutely fucking _everywhere_ in the wind, and it makes a sharb throb of fondness ping around in Eliot’s stomach. “I mean, I can’t imagine they _wouldn’t_. It’s Vegas, where else are you going to go to play high stakes Push?”

“Behind a barber’s in Little Odessa,” Quentin says, with just a trace of smugness. “I mean, that’s where I played, and the stakes were pretty fucking high.”

“You played high stakes Push in Little Odessa?” Eliot repeats, impressed and a little envious. Jesus, he’s been eyeing those games since _before_ Brakebills. There's a little familiar twist of unhappiness, that Eliot _missed _that. He'd wanted to be the person who taught Quentin to play Push, and he'd _missed_ it because of the stupid fucking Monster wearing his body like a disposable winter coat. “When? How? What did you wager to enter?”

“23.”

“23– grand?”

“No, literal Penny 23. I wagered his services.” 

“No _shit_,” Eliot murmurs, watching the little curl of smugness in the corner of Quentin's mouth expand into a full smile. “Did he kill you?”

“Yes, I’m dead, this is a very, very, very bad after life experience, welcome. Your purgatory is dealing with my depressed ass for the rest of time.” Quentin’s eye roll covers the sharpness of his words, but he doesn’t give Eliot the chance to interject. “No, I won, so he didn’t have to kill anyone.”

“You _won_ push in Little Odessa? Now is the time to ask me to marry you, Q, I’m serious.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin huffs, but he’s dimpling, smiling out at the road, so Eliot counts it as a win. Carefully doesn't think about the fact that they're driving towards a place notorious for off the cuff weddings. Marriage Equality: now you too, Eliot Waugh, have to make sure you don't get too drunk in Vegas and accidentally ruin a good thing. 

“Why were you playing, anyway?”

“We needed dewies– little magical batteries put out by the library? They were about the only currency that was worth anything for a while.” Eliot hums, because this has been mentioned in passing, the whole ‘ambient magic was virtually non existent’ thing. Eliot turns a little in his seat, senses storytime is coming and settling in so can see Quentin's face. He’s lovely in profile, heavy brows and the cute curve of his little nose, delicate bow of his lips, hair a wild fucking mess in the wind from the open window. It fills Eliot with an aching kind of tenderness, crawling and clamoring to get out of his throat, like his whole physical heart is trying to leave his body to curl up on Quentin's lap and listen to his story. “There was a whole heist involved, but we needed a little bit of seed magic to get started, so. Push game.”

“You volunteered?” Eliot fills in, because honestly, it's not shocking that Quentin's good at Push. Probability magic, translocational magic, subtle hand movement and a mild unassuming vinere to bluff through... All things Quentin could be devastatingly good at. 

Quentin makes a weird pinched face, and then begins the 5 minute long process of figuring out if he’s going to merge around the mini cooper going 40 miles an hour in front of them. “More like I _was_ volunteered. I mean, I’m the best with cards, but. I don’t know, they didn’t really seem like they thought I could do it, so I’m not sure why they put me up for it.”

“What does that mean,” Eliot wonders, physically sitting on his hands to stop himself from back-seat driving while Quentin merges lanes, white-knuckling the wheel. There's a reason Eliot has been driving most of the trip, and that's because it's a less frustrating experience for both of them. The question sits until they’re comfortably back in the right lane and going 60 miles per hour again. 

“I don’t know, Kady and 23 and Julia. Like when they were explaining the rules, Penny’s friend was saying Push players are like cars, how much magic do you consume? Are you a Prius or a Hummer, all that. 23 said I was the kind that explodes.” Quentin’s voice is oddly flat, reminiscent of the detachment he’d had before they’d left for this trip. Eliot hadn’t quite realized was gone until right now, hadn't realized how much more animated and alive Quentin has become until that enthusiasm is gone. 

“Dick,” he bites out, a slow roil of annoyance settling in his stomach. Eliot had liked their original Penny, certainly more than Quentin had, somewhat accustomed as he was to people being short tempered and cranky at him. Penny 40 and Margo has very similar energy. 23, from what Eliot has seen of him, is pushier, angrier. Meaner. “I hope Julia set him straight.”

“She laughed,” Quentin says quietly, then shrugs a little. “I guess it was funny, objectively.”

“Doesn’t sound very funny to me,” Eliot mutters, looking away from Quentin before he does something stupid, like getting angry with him for not being angry. Memory swims up in his mind, the group of them gathered up in the infirmary in Brakebills with Julia gone off to godhood and Quentin asleep. _He nearly got all of us killed_, 23 had said like Quentin hadn't just saved the world, and Alice had made that pinched face, the one that made her look she was chewing on sour grapes. “Sounds like our friends are assholes.”

“They weren’t trying to be.” Q shrugs, arm moving back up to the open window to hold his head up again. “It’s not like Kady and I were ever close. And well... whatever Julia said about it, she was into 23, at least a little. Maybe she was just subconsciously trying to impress him.”

“Maybe we need better friends.”

“They’re the best friends I’ve ever had,” Quentin says, softly, and– it’s not a disagreement, quite. More like an admission. “I mean, even Margo mostly just put up with me because you wanted her too. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that she left, after... everything.”

“Margo’s never _put up_ with anyone for anything. Remember how she _literally_ wished my boyfriend away second year?” Eliot argues, a familiar flare of anger he feels whenever he thinks about Margo leaving Quentin to deal with the Monster alone. Part of him had wanted to take Margo by the shoulders and shake her, say _how could you not know that I needed you to protect him when I couldn't_? How could she not see how bad it was, when he knows she cares about Quentin in her own right. How could she forget to act like it? “She _likes_ you, Q, I know she does. She cares about you.” 

Quentin sighs, and some of that animation is coming back. He pushes his shoulders down and back into the seat like he's physically shrugging off a weight. Eliot reaches to him on instinct, and Quentin meets him easily, hand sliding into Eliot's over the gear shift. It won't last, Quentin doesn't like driving with his left hand, but Eliot enjoys it for a moment, the feeling of sliding his fingers through Q's, how square and solid his palm feels against Eliot's. It's a small intimacy, but it's nice, this smaller simpler version of holding him. Makes the silence more comfortable as Quentin works through whatever he's thinking. 

Q squeezes his hand gently when he goes to pull away, and Eliot let's him go. “I thought things would be different, at Brakebills, you know? But– I’m still me. Weird and overinvested and annoying.”

“That’s not– how I see you,” Eliot says carefully, because this feels like a bigger conversation and one Eliot is woefully unequipped to handle. Seems like the kind of thing that will take time and work and probably better coping mechanisms than Eliot has to address. But, that doesn't mean Eliot wants this uncharitable view of the man he loves to stick around with them for the rest of the ride. “Or, I mean, you _can_ be all of those things, but they’re not all you are. You're definitely weird, but that isn’t bad. I like that you're weird, but you're also... You’re also clever, and brave, and _incredibly_ kind.” 

It’s cute, how it makes Quentin blush, a soft tinge of pink on the tops of his cheeks. “You’re biased,” Quentin accuses, little smile moving to live in the corners of his eyes.

“Because I’m in love with you?” _Jesus,_ it’s amazing how easy the word comes, now that it’s been given life between them. “On the contrary, I think that makes me an authority on the subject.”

They drive into Vegas just after nightfall. A slight detour off of the freeway had brought them to The Neon Museum, and they’d spent about an hour there, wandering through vintage signs in the growing darkness. It was one of the coolest, eeriest, most oddly melancholy and hopeful things Eliot’s ever seen, and there’s not an ounce of magic involved. Just humanity, and it’s unflinching desire to rage against the dying of the light. Plus, now Eliot’s phone boasts a new lock screen, Quentin’s smiling face in profile washed pink and purple as he looks up at an old hotel sign.

Eliot had taken over driving from there, and they’ve looped The Strip once, just to see it all. It’s like driving through a light show as they take in the gilded facade of it, the gigantic boxy hotels and the signs, fountains and marquees, lines for clubs and concerts.

“Jesus, I don’t even know where to start,” Quentin admits, but he doesn’t look the bad kind of overwhelmed, just a little bowled over by the sheer scope. “Why does a literal fantasy kingdom feel less like another world than this?”

Eliot– who at one time in his life might have scoffed at the plebeian nature of it all, and at another time felt right at home here– shrugs, happy simply to laugh at the ridiculous and marvel at the beautiful. “There are more things in heaven and earth...”

Quentin smiles over at him, and Eliot’s heart gives a happy little bump. “I like how you pretend you can’t read, but you recite fucking Shakespeare at me.”

“I attend the theatre,” Eliot says loftily, then winks, just to make Quentin laugh. It works. “Alright, so, we should probably pick one of these hotels, right? I imagine they’re not likely to be booked full. Are we embracing the tacky, going luxury, what’s the play?”

“Dump me somewhere and I’ll get us some cash, then we can stay wherever you want,” Quentin says, evenly, flippantly, confidently, and that’s just– dangerously hot, is what that is.

“We may get arrested in this town,” Eliot says cheerfully, and then pulls into a casino parking lot at random.

“Be gay, do crime,” Quentin agrees, and kisses him in front of the valet stand. 

There’s something exhilarating about watching Quentin settle in to play cards. He’s unassuming, wearing scuffed black jeans and a button up which is wrinkled from days in a suitcase. Really he looks more like a high school teacher than a Magician or a card shark, and it’s delightful, really, to know he’s more than he appears, settling seemingly nervously at a blackjack table. 

Quentin may be a cheat, but he's smart about it, never wins too big or for too long at any one table. He makes sure to bet small, lose some, and move frequently. Truly, for all the world he seems like a shy young man having a run of slightly above average luck. Meanwhile Eliot, comfortable in his role as lovely assistant, follows gamely in Quentin's wake, doing flashy but muggle-friendly magic to draw more ambient towards himself than Quentin's gentle probability spells consume. If anyone is following magic currents in the room, they'll notice the seemingly drunken dandy lighting his cocktail on fire, not the quiet professor type slowly making bank. It helps that Quentin cheats mechanically as well as magically, and helps that he's got a realistic idea of when he can cheat his way out of a bad hand, and when he has to lose. 

He walks into the casino with $200 and leaves with $8,000. It's not enough to buy a timeshare or a new car, sure, but it's enough to get them set up comfortably for a few days, and there's more casinos to play in. Eliot gamely loses $150 on slot machines and "accidentally" lights his pocket square on fire. 

It's an amazing night. 

“So I did some digging,” Eliot says later that night, naked with sweat cooling on his skin and Quentin’s warm little body tucked into the curve of his arm, bare skin pressed all along his side. The sheets are soft and cool against his back, and _Jesus_, it’s nice to be staying somewhere with actual thread count standards. 

Quentin, who’s been absentmindedly playing with Eliot’s chest hair for the better part of five minutes, looks up at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmmmhm,” Eliot hums, sliding his foot along Quentin’s calf. “All that flashy magic wasn’t just for show, you know. I spent a lovely 10 minutes talking to a girl who noticed my spells, and clearly thought I was an easy mark. Apparently Push happens tournament style here every month. Each of the casinos runs a game one night, and then the next night the winners all face off. Then it’s dark for the rest of the month, rinse, repeat. Stakes are lower for the preliminary tournaments, go up significantly for the winner’s pot. The next tournament is the day after tomorrow.”

“Well, that gives us one day to find something worth the price of entry,” Quentin says thoughtfully, then: “Do you think if I tell them my best friend is a goddess and I could probably get a favor, they’ll accept that?”

Eliot snorts, rolling them both over until Quentin’s under him, slides his fingers into Quentin’s soft hair. The light brown strands look dark against the sheets, all contrast. Light and shadow, softness with sharp edges, that’s Quentin. “I think they’ll disqualify you to prevent divine intervention,” Eliot points out, then shuts up his protests with a kiss. 

Luckily for them, Eliot’s always been good at locator spells. It’s easy to find a broken charmed necklace at a pawn shop, still emanating with a powerful enchantment. “This feels like phosphoromancy magic,” Quentin says softly, hovering his hand over the broken necklace, brow pinched. “I think– this would make you invisible, if it weren’t broken.”

“Can you fix it?” Eliot asks, curious. He’s seen Quentin fix all manner of things, clever hands and good, sturdy magic, but an enchanted item would be hard to mend around. Eliot knows _he_ couldn’t do it.

“I think so,” Quentin says, and picks up the necklace.

It takes a couple hours, mostly of examination and calculation and then a slow careful mending, but it turns out that yes, he can fix it. It leaves him tired, pretty wiped out, but he insists on venturing back out. Eliot humors him, happy to have Quentin's warm, sleepy weight tucked into his side as they meander through The Strip. They visit the Erotic Heritage Muesum, which turns out to be more sad than funny, and sort of depressingly heterosexual.

"You'd think queer people would warrant more of a mention when it comes to sex," Eliot grumbles as they wander past a giant sculpture of a penis made of pennies. "Since the rest of the world thinks sex is all we're about."

"I'm sure they don't want to alienate bigoted tourists," Quentin points out, all reasonable. But he does slide his hand into Eliot's back pocket and gives his ass a friendly little squeeze, so. That almost makes up for it. 

There’s 16 entrants in the Push tournament at their casino of choice. They try to bar Eliot at the door, claiming that only participants were allowed in the room, set up with its long table and chairs against the walls.

“I like to watch,” Eliot says suggestively, when they bouncer gives him a skeptical look. He raises his eyebrows, smirking a little because it’s not even a lie. In the end, they let him in, but only under the condition that he keep his sleeves rolled up, and his hands visible at all times.

“No help from the sidelines,” the bouncer says pointedly, and Eliot holds up his hands in demonstration. 

“Moral support, honest,” He promises, with a flirty wink which might as well have been directed straight at the solid wall behind the man’s head for all the response he gets. He must be losing his touch. 

Q’s quiet, focused, that unassuming, slightly beguiled air about him again. They sit together on the sidelines, Eliot’s arm looped loosely over the back of Quentin’s chair, but Q’s not paying him much mind. He’s watching the first round of the game intensely, and Eliot settles in, truly content to watch for once. Oh, he likes playing Push, it’s fun and challenging, and he’s not bad at it. 

Quentin’s better.

Eliot already knows, knows Q’s of the caliber to be able to hold his own here, even as two rounds of the tournament pass them by. Eliot only bothers to mark the winners, an Asian woman with a bob and a single streak of blue in her hair, and a suit-and-tie office type. Then Quentin’s up, settling across the table from a man with dark skin and a mohawk. 

Quentin just _barely_ wins. 

If Eliot didn’t know him, hadn’t spent weeks in a car and sharing a bed with him, and 50 years before that, if Eliot didn’t _know him_ as well as he does– he’d think Quentin was struggling. He scrapes a win by a single card, by the skin of his teeth. He’s over-expending magic on flashy spells that don’t produce much in the way of results. That and his too fidgety hands and slightly lost expression make it look like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He does. He’s _bluffing the whole game_, and _succeeding_, and Eliot’s so fucking impressed it takes all of his own acting skills to not give up the goat. Quentin comes back to his seat and Eliot meets him with over-the-top encouragement, promising under his breath but loud enough to be heard, “That spell will work next time, I know it.”

Quentin catches his eye and there’s just a flash, a flicker of amusement, and Eliot feels the swoop of excitement in his stomach at being in on the con. His boyfriend’s a hustler and Eliot fucking _loves it_. 

Five more winners in rapid succession, an older woman, a boy just barely out of his teens, a college age girl with riotous orange curls and undercut, a gym teacher lookin’ guy, and an older man with rich brown skin and dark hair. Blue-hair-streak is the best out of all of them, in Eliot’s opinion, besides his own dark horse of course. He’d bet she’s the one to beat. He’s tempted to _actually_ bet on it, see if someone in the room will wager with him, but that seems like the kind of offense he might get kicked out for, and he really wants to see this. 

Quentin’s up against Gym Teacher in the next round, and it’s clear from the start that this guy’s bought Quentin’s act. He’s mocking, and showy, clearly thinks Quentin’s a pushover and isn’t even paying attention to the fact that he’s losing soundly. 

“Thought you’d come and play with the big boys, huh?” the guy jeers, and Eliot grinds his teeth, watches Quentin’s subtle twitch of the fingers, which makes the asshole throw down a three.

“Maybe big is how I like my boys,” Quentin says mildly, and Eliot really _would_ fucking marry him tonight, right here in this stupid casino. It doesn’t even look impressive, doesn’t look like Quentin’s doing much to win besides enduring mocking of hypermasculine asshole, but he wins, soundly and solidly.

At the end of the second round it’s Blue-Hair-Streak, Red Curls, the teenage boy and Quentin left in the running. Round three has Quentin up against Red Curls, and the expression on her face says she’s not buying his act, not for a second.

So he throws it away, just like that. He settles into a confidence Eliot’s never seen in him before, an ease in his shoulders, wrists and hands and elbows all loose. He plays cleanly, with confidence and relaxation, like this really is a walk in the park for him, like he’s expending no effort at all. He is, honestly, _so fucking hot._ Eliot, who’s sense of decorum is sort of piecemeal at the best of times, finds the temptation to settle himself between Quentin’s legs growing by the second. Probability starts flowing wildly around the room, Eliot can _feel_ the tingle of magic on his skin, but Quentin wins, and by a margin of a handful of points. 

“You’re so hot,” Eliot breathes into his ear, as Quentin takes his seat in the crowd again, because fuck, he _is_. Eliot’s pretty boy with his clever hands and his big fucking brain... god, Quentin couldn’t be more perfect for Eliot if he’d been made just for him.

“Behave,” Quentin hisses, but he’s smiling just a little around his eyes. 

The match between Blue-Hair-Streak and the teenage boy is a vicious, vicious fight. They tie twice, flipping cards into hats and honestly this game is so _weird_ but Eliot’s having so much fun. Blue-Hair-Streak wins the match by a single card, in the end, leaving it her verses Q for the pot of cash and magical objects.

It’s a tight, tense round. Blue-Hair-Girl is an expert caster, and seems to have a pretty good read on Quentin’s play style. He falls behind by the middle of the game, and only a tie breaker manages to pull him back out of it. There’s so much wild probability flying around the room that Eliot honestly half expects a freak meteor to smash through the roof, pulled by the wildness of the spells. Quentin’s straining, just a little, to keep up, and then _scrapes_ ahead a lead, with one card left to go. 

Everyone in the room is tense, as both Magicians hover their hands over their cards. Sitting forward on the edge of his seat, Eliot watches with bated breath as Quentin flips over and throws down his card. Eliot’s heart sinks– it’s a two.

But then seconds later, his opponent throws down her card and it’s– blank. It’s completely blank, a sheer white surface. Eliot’s out of his seat and rushing towards Q, pulling him out of his chair with a whoop and a shout. “Yes!! Fuck yeah, Baby Q!”

Quentin’s laughing, all crinkle smile and bright eyes, and he lets himself be man-handled up into Eliot’s arms, into a kiss and then a bone-crushing hug. Then he lets himself be dragged back to the hotel room, stopping only long enough to collect the bag of winnings. Eliot pushes him to sit on the edge of the bed, and sinks to his knees in between Quentin’s spread thighs.

“You’re so,” he breathes, hot across the head of Quentin’s dick, “–incredible, Q, you have no idea.”

“I– thanks?” Quentin squeaks, and groans, hands flying up to grip Eliot’s shoulders as he takes the head of Quentin’s cock into his mouth. _Fuck_, he’s been thinking about this for _an hour_, god. And Quentin _won_, Jesus. He deserves to get his brain sucked out through his dick, and that is a service Eliot can provide. Does, gladly, then strips him naked and fits his own cock between Quentin’s soft, supple thighs, ruts there until he comes too. 

_In their hotel room, in Vegas_, _paid for with money Quentin scammed_. Jesus. Eliot tumbles back onto the bed, laughing helplessly. The look Q gives him says he’s wondering if Eliot’s lost his mind, but Eliot’s not sure how to explain it. How the fuck do you say to someone that for the first time in maybe three years, you kind of love your life. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” is what he gets out, eventually.

“Coming with you, or like... _coming_ with you?” Quenint asks, eyes sparkling and dorky, and Eliot dissolves into laughter again. 

“Both, Baby Q. Both.”

Quentin doesn’t make it to the end of the winner’s tournament, but that’s fine. They don’t need the magical items, which they’d put up as the price for entry; they don’t even really need the cash they’d kept, honestly, but it’s nice to have. 

“Guess I couldn’t just stroll up out of nowhere and be the best in the country,” Quentin says, a little dejected, but he doesn’t seem too cut up about it. No, he just leans into Eliot’s side with his head on Eliot’s shoulder, hand on his thigh as they watch the rest of the tournament play out. 

“I think you’re fucking brilliant,” Eliot says honestly, rubbing the pad of his thumb into the point of Quentin’s shoulder. He just hums a little, and relaxes into Eliot’s arm. 

**5– The Pacific Coast**

The plan is this: drive north from Vegas, skirting the edges of Sacramento in Northern California to take their Vegas winnings to wine country. From there, they'll hug the coastline driving south, and spend a couple days being young queer men in San Fransisco, explore the Mission District and maybe go to a couple clubs if Eliot can drag Quentin into it. (He does, and they both have fun despite it all, Quentin tucked in and held close against his chest, pressing hot kisses to the exposed skin of Eliot’s neck as they move in the crowd.) From there, the plan is LA, spend a couple days doing the tourist thing in Hollywood and hit up Disneyland, make all the moms mad by being 20-something and childless and ahead of them in line. Then, after that...

Eliot's not sure.

They haven't really talked about what happens once they get to the end of the line with this road trip. A part of Eliot would be delighted to keep it going, drive south towards the Mexican border. Everyone says Austin is worth the time of day, he wouldn't mind seeing that, going to a jazz club in New Orleans, sunbathing in the Florida sunlight. Another part of him would be happy to ditch the car and portal-hop to Europe, take Quentin to London and Paris and Barcelona. 

But they've been moving constantly for almost a month, at this point, and as much as Eliot's enjoyed it– he can't help but wonder if this has turned from 'get a change of scenery' to 'run away from your problems.' Seems like they kind of thing they should be wary of, given the history they both have with running away from things. 

The plan, as it is, kind of flies out the window a little bit as they cross into California, hazy sunlight streaming into their little sedan, and Quentin says "Let's go find a beach. I want to see the Pacific ocean."

Eliot looks over at him, the way his hair hangs just that much longer around his ears, the relaxed way he's holding himself in the passenger seat of the car, no longer sunken-eyed and too-thin. The scruff on his cheeks has grown out from a couple days of not shaving, but his hair's soft and clean, and when he catches Eliot watching him, he raises an eyebrow questioningly. Says, "Eyes on the road, asshole," and smiles when Eliot laughs. He looks content, Eliot realizes, healthy and present. 

"Okay. A beach it is."

They drive right on pastNapa and Sonoma, heading towards a state park Quentin found on Google maps called Salmon Creek Beach. It’s a long drive there from Nevada, 5 straight hours with only short breaks for gas and snacks, but Eliot can’t shake the feeling like they’re moving towards something important. 

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect if they tried, pulling into the little parking lot of the beach right around sunset. It’s not warm enough yet for the beach to be crowded with late afternoon swimmers and surfers, but it is much warmer than their Lake Michigan adventure. Warm enough that Eliot doesn’t bother to grab his jacket as they clamber out of the car. They can’t see the ocean from the parking lot, blocked as it is by the bluffs on the way down to the beach, but excitement sparkles through Eliot’s veins nonetheless.

“Ready to see a whole new ocean?” he asks, nudging his elbow into Q’s side as the walk up towards the path in the bluffs.

“I mean, that _is_ what we came all this way for,” Quentin says, but he reaches out to slide his hand into Eliot’s, and Eliot has no doubt, none at all, that Quentin feels the same way he does: that in this particular quest, it was the journey that really mattered.

Maybe all quests are like that. Eliot doesn’t fucking know, that’s Quentin’s thing. 

They crest over the bluff together, holding hands, and it’s–

Eliot’s seen other worlds. He’s tasted magic and opium on the air in Fillory, felt the weird muteness of the Neitherlands, experienced wonders big and small. But somehow this– this steals his breath. The Pacific Ocean stretches out before them, wide and blue and seemingly _infinite_, waves peaking and crashing in picturesque white foamy caps. The sky stretches on ahead, unbroken as far as the ocean, stained yellow and pink and orange with the setting sun. A gentle warm breeze catches on Eliot’s hair, on the open front of his vest, tugging slightly, and it’s–

“Holy shit,” Quentin breathes next to him, and Eliot squeezes his hand, because yeah.

Holy shit.

They stumble down the bluffs, sand loose underfoot, and Eliot stops long enough to take off his shoes. Quentin doesn’t bother, just heads across the beach to where the waves are breaking, still staring out into the ocean.

“Every beach I’ve been to it’s like– small? Like you can see other parts of the coast curving around it. And it didn’t feel so. God, this is dumb, but it didn’t feel so big.” Quentin’s face is still full of awe, painted orangey-gold by the sunset, hair moving in the breeze. He’s _so fucking beautiful_, Jesus Christ. When he looks over at Eliot, hapless, helpless, all Eliot can think about is how close they came to _missing_ this.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmurs, maybe too low even for Quentin to hear and it’s not– it’s not the right response to what Quentin had said, but it’s true, it’s _true_, it’s as true now as it’s been every time he’s said in the last couple weeks.

Quentin’s face softens, and he turns away from the ocean, arms come out to slide around Eliot’s waist, tug him in a little. He goes, reaching the hand not holding his shoes up to touch Quentin’s cheek, his hair, slide around to cup the back of his skull as Q looks up at him. 

“I’m glad I am too,” Quentin says softly, _sincerely, _like that’s not a fucking miracle. Like they hadn’t sat on the couch in Kady’s penthouse a little over a month ago, Q listless as he admitted didn’t see the point of being alive anymore. 

_Fuck_, Eliot thinks, dropping his head down until his forehead is resting against Q’s, their hair blowing together in the breeze. He knows well enough to know that Quentin will be fighting this thing his whole life, but if they’re through the worst of it now then– then Eliot actually _does_ know how to help. He _did_ help. 

It’s a heady thought. Terrifying and reassuring in equal measure. 

Then Q’s pushing up on his toes, head tilting up and in for a kiss, soft, sweet and slow. It’s a lover’s kiss, a _yes now, but also forever_ kind of kiss. It’s not, really, a kind of kiss Eliot’s used to being given, the kind of kiss that you give someone not because you want anything from them, but because you just– want to show love_._

It’s going to be a lot of work to learn how to be loved like this, Eliot thinks dazedly, as Q pulls back. But, fuck does he want to do that work. “I choose you,” Eliot says earnestly, looking into Quentin’s big brown eyes, and somehow maybe that’s more powerful than _I love you_. Means more, for them. “I’m going to keep choosing you.” 

Quentin’s smile is brighter than the setting sun.

They settle to sit on the beach, Q’s hoodie spread out beneath them to sit on. Quentin drops to sit first, and Eliot tucks up behind him, legs on either side of his hips, arms wrapping around his stomach easily. Quentin leans back into him, eager as every to be held, and they watch the sunset together in comfortable silence. 

Eliot finally speaks, once the sky is more purple and blue than pink and orange, and a few winking stars are beginning to make themselves known. “So where to now?”

“... the vineyard?” Quentin replies, confusion clear in his tone. “I mean– isn’t that the plan?”

“Oh, it is,” Eliot agrees, smiling into Quentin’s hair. “I kind of meant after the plan, though. What’s next after California.”

“Oh. I dunno.” Quentin’s quiet for a beat, clearly giving the question some thought, and Eliot lets him, content to feel his warmth, breathe in the scent of his hair. Quentin twists around a little in Eliot’s arms, and Eliot lets go of him so he can turn more fully, so they can see each other’s faces. “I kind of miss Brooklyn? Like, the penthouse was nice, but– I don’t know, it never felt right for me.”

“We could do Brooklyn,” Eliot muses, leaning back on his hands on the beach. “Grow out your hair again and rescue a pitbull and we’ll fit right in.”

Quentin’s face lights up, and Eliot has a moment of _oh no_ before Q says “Or a cat! We should rescue a cat. I love dogs but they’re a lot of work.”

“We could,” Eliot agrees, reluctantly, and Quentin grins, easy, bright, full. _Fuck_, he’s got the most beautiful smile.

“Don’t run away, I’m not making you a dad yet,” he says fondly, and Eliot– 

Sit up, leans over to rest his chin on Quentin’s shoulder, tucking into his side. “Not _yet_,” he agrees, tracing a finger tip down the skin on Quentin’s arm, from the edge of his t-shirt to his fuzzy wrist. “But I’m not running anywhere.”

“I know,” Quentin says, soft, fond, head tipping to rest against Eliot’s. 

“We could do Brooklyn,” Eliot murmurs, sliding his fingers through Quentin’s. Shorter and stockier than his own, Quentin’s hand felt sturdy in Eliot’s, solid. Present. “Any idea what you’d do there?”

“You know, before– the Library was looking for someone who could repair magical objects?” Quentin shrugs, jostling Eliot’s head a little, which he complains at wordlessly. “Apparently it’s really difficult, if you’re not naturally inclined for mending spells. And well– I don’t know if, given how things are with Alice, that I’d still– But I could do that? Or maybe I can find someone else who wants that too. It can’t just be the Library that needs magical objects mended. It’d be nice, I think, to fix things for awhile. I think I’d like to use magic to fix things.”

“I love that for you,” Eliot cooes, and it’s half a joke, but it’s mostly not, and he knows Q can tell. Squeezes his hand softly, just to make sure.

“What about you? What would you do in Brooklyn?”

“I dunno. I always aspired to be a trophy husband,” Eliot sighs dramatically, and when Quentin dimples at him, he kisses the little coma on his cheek. Because he can, because he’s allowed, because Quentin’s _here_ and _loves him_. Q chases his lips when he goes to pull back, head turning so their lips meet again for another lover’s kiss, soft and sweet and long. Eliot’s still thinking when they part, but Q’s patient, gives him time to mull it over. “I think I want to learn more about magic. I think– it can be more than we’ve been taught.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, resting his head back on Quentin’s shoulder. “Not like– I don’t think I want to go back to Brakebills. I don’t think the way they do things is the right way, really, especially not after–”

“The hedges in Chicago,” Quentin fills in, and Eliot nods.

“But there’s so much we don’t understand about magic. And with the wellspring, and secret sea and the fountain at the end of the world, like– We should know more about where magic comes from and how we can access it. We should get a better sense of what we can _do_ with it.”

“That sounds like a big project,” Quentin muses, fingers playing with absently with Eliot’s. “Bigger than Brooklyn, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Eliot admits, sliding his hand free so he can curl both arms around Quentin’s stomach, cuddle him close. “There might be field work involved. But it’d be nice to have a home.”

“I think I could make that happen,” Quentin teases, tucking his head under Eliot’s chin, resting against the crook of his neck.

“I think you already are,” Eliot admits, squeezing him tight. A cabin in the Fillorian woods, or a hotel room in Chicago, or beach in California, they carried home with them as far as Eliot was concerned. 

Brooklyn seemed as good a place as any to put down roots.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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